The Scent and The Siren

‎♡‧₊˚one ‎♡‧₊˚

✧༺♥༻∞

─── ⋅｡ﾟ☆: ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅:☆ﾟ ⋅ ───

𓆩♡𓆪 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𓆩♡𓆪

✧༺♥༻∞

"Where am I?" I mumble, swallowing the salty, olive-y swig of the dirty martini as I inspect the scene around me.

When I escaped the rear entrance of the most exclusive nightclub Devil's Den, to catch some fresh air away from the congestion caused by New York's most prominent très riche A-listers gathered to party post-spicy rigatoni at Carbone, this was the last place I was expecting to land in. It's a far cry from the hippest areas of Lower Manhattan.

I have somehow winded up in a gloomy, nondescript narrow street that represents a dusty and foreboding alleyway. The cinematic appeal of this place, with its seedy atmosphere and a touch of film noir makes me feel like I'm in a gritty Hollywood movie where gruesome murders occur.

My body is woozy from the mix of alcohol and a potent jetlag. I shouldn't have come here alone and inebriated. What the heck was I thinking?

As I walk further into the block-long cobblestone alleyway, I realize being in this place has a high chance of inviting trouble. The ominous night sky rumbling in the background and buildings flinging grotesque shadows in the dim street lamps makes it eerie and unnerving.

This place looks like New York City from colonial times. The building facades appear to be in a state of disrepair, with heavy rust all over them. There are dark corners, soot-and-graffiti-covered brick walls, and an eight-story maze of rooftops. The ghastly lane is lined intact with the turn of the 20th-century warehouses that feature loading docks, enormous bricked-over windows, and elaborate fire escapes.

The collective noise in the distance is seemingly bouncing off the tall buildings and reverberating more than in other parts of the city. The hydraulic screech of the garbage truck, the hiss of the bus as it lowers its speed somewhere nearby, the horns, the sirens of police vehicles and emergency vehicles, and the thick, choppy sound of helicopter's blades from the sky, all of the sounds that are so specific to the city and make up sort of an iconic soundtrack are exceptionally crisp in this place.

It has started drizzling. The worn down and broken Belgian block paving stones have become slick and slippery. I throw back the remaining content of my martini with a large gulp and take careful further steps to escape this hell. The unusual amount of alcohol in my system has taken the plunge to cloud my senses. I should have seriously eaten something before getting drunk. It's the Drinking 101, Juliette. I climb up the sidewalk on the other side, the one without heaps of garbage, and settle my hand on the wall for support as I continue trudging forward.

Squeaking sounds come from the heaps of trash piled up on the curbside beside the older galvanized trash cans and broken furniture. My eyes fly wide as I watch four mice pop out of the Con Ed steam pipes lying on the street and run towards the other side from right next to where I'm standing.

My hand shoots straight to my heart, palpitating with fear. "What the.." I screech with horror, jumping off the sidewalk, and run for my life.

I have barely made it out of the alley, gasping, stumbling, and shaking, when I'm brought to a sharp halt, and I almost stumble in my steps. The martini glass that has miraculously been in my hand all this time slips and shatters on the concrete surface. My gaze flies wide in shock as I realize the heel of the Roger Vivier on my right foot is stuck in a tiny hole of a manhole cover in the middle of the deserted street.